Touch
by Anna-Salem
Summary: No one's ever touched him that way...


"Touch"  
  
(Rated R: Some suggestive dialogue, semi-graphic sexual situations, language)  
  
Summary: At Willard's mother's funeral, Cathryn touches Willard in a way that I imagine no one else has. He seems so vulnerable at this point. I wanted to illustrate the other touches he might have received in his past, and what touches he wants to receive. . .(Wink, Elbow, Wink)  
  
He felt warm skin meet his face. There was an instantaneous need to pull away, to back into the corner and close his eyes. Yet, the touch was soft and smooth and sent the tiny muscles in his cheek twitching with electricity. It wasn't at all painful or threatening.  
  
i "Willard, come here."  
  
A few timid steps and he was as close to the bedroom as he dared. The door was ajar; sickly yellow light spilled into the dusty hallway. His mother sat at the edge of her bed, her frail, mottled legs straining to pull her into a standing position. Willard cringed at the sight.  
  
"Mother," he managed, "let's get you back into bed." He lightly placed his hand on her arm. She wheeled upon him, her hand reaching out to give a stinging smack across his face.  
  
"I can do it myself, I don't need you."  
  
Her wailing seemed to claw at his brain, the bite of the slap still lingered on the tender skin of his cheek. He backed away slowly, retreating into the shadows of the hallway, out of the yellow light and the bitter stare of his mother. . . /i  
  
But the hand that touched him now was not frightening. It was caring, soothing. Though it didn't last long, the touch made him shiver with longing.  
  
Mr. Martin stepped in, breaking the silence. Cathryn's hand slid away from Willard's tear-streaked face, only to fall onto her lap. He desperately wanted to grasp her hand and not let go, but Willard would not let. . . b that man /b . . .see his weakness. Not now, not here. He'd shown too much weakness already.  
  
i "Don't you know shit, boy?"  
  
Frank Martin flung the stack of papers at him. They carelessly scattered, and Willard tried frantically to scoop them back into a pile. Mr. Martin scowled, smirking down at the young man he'd been forced to employ.  
  
"You're worthless, you know that? Completely worthless."  
  
He continued to rant and rave, calling Willard names that embarrassed him beyond belief, names he'd never heard anyone called.  
  
"Little cocksucker, listen to me when I'm talking to you!"  
  
The larger man hauled Willard to his feet, slamming him against the wall of the office.  
  
"You listen, shithead, the only reason you're here is because your daddy had the nerve to stick you into that contract. And as long as you're here, your life is going to be hell unless you do what I say. Understand?"  
  
Willard nodded pathetically, wishing that Mr. Martin would leave him alone. But he continued to smash the small man's back to the wall; what he was trying to prove, Willard couldn't say. All he knew was that he was thankful when Mr. Martin loosened his grip and backed away, dismissing him with a grunt. At that moment Willard vowed that he would never put himself in that position again. . . /i  
  
Willard glared at his superior as he peered into the coffin. Cathryn seemed to sense the hostility, and looked Willard in the eyes, hoping to draw his attention away. It worked momentarily, until Mr. Martin opened his mouth.  
  
"Shouldn't you be working?" He demanded casually of Cathryn.  
  
"Lunch hour," was her stony reply.  
  
"Hell of a way to spend it, huh?"  
  
Willard looked away submissively, not wanting to speak at all. Mr. Martin inquired about the house, but Willard would not give him the satisfaction of an answer. When the intruder had departed, Willard turned to Cathryn. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was for her presence; how much better he felt, not having to live the pain of his loss alone. But there was another intruder, another interruption, and before he knew it, she was gone.  
  
The archaic house creaked and swayed with the wind. Even his bedroom was drafty, though Willard barely noticed anymore. Socrates was seated happily on his bed, looking up at him playfully. He smiled at the white rat, patted him on the head, and allowed him to crawl up his sleeve.  
  
"Come on Socrates," he said pleasantly, "Time to get ready for bed."  
  
The two of them headed to the bathroom. Socrates snuggled up to Willard's neck, his tiny whiskers tickling a bit. Willard smiled again, savoring the sensation. It had been so long since he felt the need to smile, genuinely smile. Until Socrates came along, he'd had nothing to smile about. But Willard couldn't help but think back to that afternoon, when Cat had so tenderly stroked his cheek. He regarded the thought fondly and tucked it into his mind; another thing to smile about.  
  
He placed his friend on the edge of this sink. With a washcloth and a little water, he gently smoothed the rat's beautifully white fur. Socrates cleaned his paws and ran them over his face.  
  
"That's right, Socrates. You like to be clean."  
  
Willard began to remove his clothing, starting with the ancient suit jacket his father had worn. The shirt underneath was beginning to fray at the edges. He removed his trousers and folded them neatly. Standing in the center of the bathroom in only his boxer's, Willard couldn't help but notice himself in the mirror. The face that looked back at him was drawn and gaunt. The skin of his shoulders and chest was hairless and pale, so pale. Pale and smooth, just as he imagined Cathryn's skin.  
  
He put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, combed his hair into its usual dramatic part, and returned Socrates to his shoulder. They made their way back to the bedroom. Willard turned out the light and climbed into bed, placing Socrates gently on the pillow next to him. Closing his eyes, Willard tried to picture Cathryn and her dreamy gaze. As he did so, he felt his own smooth, pale hand come to rest on his cheek, and it remained at the exact spot her hand had been. He softly caressed his face, relishing in the imaginary contact.  
  
The hand that caressed his face began to work its way down the polished skin of his neck, lower over his chest, and lower yet to the fine hair of his stomach. There, the fingers gingerly swept through the coarse hair, the hair that led to that other place. . .  
  
It had been a long time since he'd touched himself; it seemed like such a childish thing to do. No man would have to touch himself if they had a woman to do it for him. Yet, the fingers felt so cool and soft on his abdomen. And he was hard, his erection pressing against unyielding fabric. Finally, with a sigh of despair, Willard reached into his pajamas and clasped himself. He inhaled sharply; his fingers were cooler than he thought.  
  
At first he stroked gently, trying to get the feel just right. He also didn't want to disturb the slumbering Socrates. . .how embarrassing that would be. But as he continued to stroke, his body tensed: his jaw clenched, his head lolled back, his eyes shut tightly. Willard just wanted to end it, to get it over with and forget about it. So he began to stroke more rapidly, a frenzied need taking hold of his deft fingers. He came all over his hand, the sticky substance making him want to vomit. At least it was done with. Willard retracted his hand from under the covers. It was still covered with cum, and he didn't want it to get on his blankets. Socrates woke and squeaked inquisitively at him. Caught.  
  
"What's the matter, Socrates?"  
  
Willard hid his slimy hand behind his back, a sheepish look on his face. The little rat lowered his head knowingly and closed his eyes, resuming his sleep. Willard's cheeks flushed with mortification. He went to the bathroom and rinsed his hand, the hand that he had imagined was her hand. A tear of loneliness stung Willard's eye for just a moment. But as he climbed back into bed, he glanced at the sleeping form of his only friend, and knew that he would never be alone again. Smoothing the white rat's fur, Willard smiled. 


End file.
